The Raft (12 page)

“I get it. Composting toilet. Thanks.”

“Oh,” Maggie got the hint. She squeezed back
out of the concertina door and closed it behind her.

Rachael unbuckled her belt and tentatively
lowered herself down onto the coffee machine/deck chair.

“So, it seems like we wasted a morning and
came full circle,” Rachael said through the slatted door. “The more
we learn, the more things point back to Horus.”

“It's interesting,” Maggie said from out in
the main cabin. “How Chemical's and Tea Queen's stories
compare.”

“You said that Chemical's story was patently
ridiculous. Bullshit, was your choice of words, if I remember.”

“Oh, most certainly. Tea Queen's story is so
much more plausible. But what interests me is not where the stories
differ, but where they intersect. Both Chemical and Tea Queen said
Meerkat was sneaking back to shore on a regular basis. Why, they
disagreed on, but they both mentioned the fact. And the idea that
Meerkat was doing so with Horus's blessing, even his active
assistance.”

“So?” Rachael stood up and adjusted her
clothing. Now, exactly how to flush a composting toilet...

“So, what was she doing onshore? Blackmailing
a US Senator or attending AA? Both seem rather fantastic...”

“You think it was something else?” Rachael
found a handle that, if she was the designer, would have flushed
the toilet. She pushed it and the lid slapped closed. There was a
gurgling sound, not a flush. Rachael dithered.

“Meerkat was obviously lying to Horus or Tea
Queen. Why not both? No, I think you're right. We've spent the
morning and ended right back where we started.”

“Perhaps we should do what Tea Queen
suggested.” Rachael washed her hands and opened the door. “Head to
dryland and look for Horus.”

“Mmm...” Maggie grunted.

“Or simply head for dryland. You know, every
hour we spend out here, it only grows more dangerous.”

“I can't just walk away from my
responsibilities, Rachael. Meerkat was mine to take care of.”

Rachael huffed. “I know, and I'm not
suggesting you shirk your responsibilities. But you know if the
Rafters and the Coast Guard start trading shots, no one is going to
remember Meerkat or care what happened to her. There just isn't
enough time to investigate this properly.”

“There's no sign of the Coast Guard yet.”

“No, but look: you have me, that's a resource
most people don't have. The press can keep something like Meerkat's
death in the public eye. Married to a homicide detective,
award-winning investigative journalist, I have the resources to
make sure this whole affair doesn't get dropped. From the safety of
shore, we could -”

“What does any dryfoot care about one dead
Rafter?” an irritated Maggie interjected. Rachael bit her lip.
“After this all blows over. there isn't a soul onshore who's going
to think anything other than that each and every Rafter got exactly
what they deserved. Meerkat, me, if you're foolish enough to still
be here, you. Gone, that's all anyone on dryland wants from the
Raft: for it to vanish. And whatever has to happen, how many
Rafters have to wash up on the shores of the Puget Sound, they just
want the job done.”

“Maggie,” Rachael tried to rest a comforting
hand on Maggie's shoulder, but before Rachael could touch Maggie,
Maggie was on her feet climbing back up to the cockpit.

“If there was only more time,” Maggie said as
she disappeared through the companionway. “But we're almost out of
it,” her voice came from above deck.

“There's time,” Rachael assured, rubbing her
temples. She was making no progress. If it was possible, Rachael's
presence had only doubled Maggie's resolve to stay on the Raft.
Bringing up ancient history, stirring up emotions, Rachael was
making a terrible mess of everything. She had to focus, appeal to
Maggie's logic. Emotions were just sending Maggie deeper into the
well-defended cocoon Maggie had build for herself aboard the
Soft Cell
. And the further Maggie pushed away from Rachael,
the more danger she was getting herself into.

Rachael took a deep breath.

“No,” Maggie voice came again, urgently from
above. “I mean
we're out of time
.”

“What?” Rachael hopped up the steps and
emerged into the daylight. She followed Maggie's stare towards the
skyline of the city. There at the dock line, red and blue lights
were flashing. “Is that -?”

“Looks like they've resolved their
jurisdictional disputes,” Maggie said coldly.

Rachael looked back over her shoulder at the
silhouette of the
Kalakala
in the distance, and its
surrounding protective island of smaller craft.

“We still have a head start. Under full sail,
we might just make it back to the
Kalakala
before the Coast
Guard,” Rachael said.

“Or we could turn hard to port.” Maggie
looked to the south, towards the outcrop of land that was Alki.
“Back to beach where I picked you up.”

“You know that's the smart money, Maggie,”
Rachael said, hoping against hope. “No one would fault you.”

“No,” Maggie looked to the south for a long
minute, shielding her eyes against the sun. “They probably
wouldn't.”

Then Maggie moved into action, tightening
lines and adjusting winches. Very quickly, the
Soft Cell
was
heeling against the firm southern breeze with Maggie at the helm, a
resolute look of grimness on her face.

Chapter 12

If their brisk jaunt through the Agate Pass
had taught Rachael that five years aboard the Raft had made Maggie
a competent sailor, their hell-bent race back towards the
Kalakala
proved her skill unequivocally.

But the masterful sailing was all in vain. A
good breeze and a skilled hand at the tiller were no match for the
twin diesels of a Coast Guard Motor Lifeboat.

The
Soft Cell
was perhaps a thousand
yards out from the
Kalakala
as the pair of 47-foot longboats
cut past, buffeting Maggie and Rachael in their wakes.

Before the prows of the approaching
authorities, the main body of the Raft, encircling the ferry, began
to disintegrate. Like cockroaches at the switching on of a light,
the hodgepodge collection of vessels began to scatter, seeking
shelter in the wooded bays and inlet of the nearby Island. Only
Maggie and the
Soft Cell
were hurtling towards the impending
confrontation. Only Maggie and Rachael.

Rachael had to smile, though she quickly
swallowed any sign of her excitement the moment Maggie glanced in
her direction.
This
was journalism, she said to herself. If
nothing else, Rachael knew she was about to find herself right at
the epicenter of a story. It was thrilling, in an unwise,
devil-may-care sort of way. Almost every part of Rachael knew she
should be forcing Maggie's hand, making her turn about and head for
the safety of dryland. But some small part of Rachael was relishing
in the chance to do some actual journalism.

So much of her days were spent behind a desk.
There was little budget nowadays to do any sort of fieldwork at the
paper – any kind of investigative reporting. Publishing a newspaper
had become little more than typesetting information that came
across the wire, a relic left over from a bygone age, servicing a
community too indifferent to setup an RSS feeds.

Rachael had grown up admiring
real
journalists. Though perhaps more the television news variety than
the printed reporter. They had been her inspiration to enter into
journalism.

Rachael's earliest memories were of being
glued to the 24-hour news channels, the likes of Christiane
Amanpour reporting from some war-torn corner of the globe in Prada
and a flack jacket. The mix of smoldering sexuality and danger had
always thrilled Rachael. She'd imagined herself one day in the
thick of some revolutionary turmoil, hurriedly delivering some
insightful, biting monologue to a shaky handheld camera as bullets
cracked against stucco walls behind her and soldiers screamed in
pain.

The reality of journalism, however, turned
out to be significantly less exotic. In the years after Rachael had
graduated university, there were no more wars left for her to
cover, no combat units in which to be embedded. America's foreign
reach, once so limitless, had long since receded to the coastline
of North America. Military budget had been cut and a weary
population had put an end to the government's foreign adventures.
The United States, even by the most generous patriotic estimations,
was no longer a world player.

The golden age of the country, and by
extension, its media had passed before Rachael had even seen her
first paycheck. Journalism for Rachael was about budget
negotiations and rationing committees, not evil dictators and
populist rebellions.

But aboard the
Soft Cell
with Maggie,
racing against the roaring motors of the Coast Guard boats, Rachael
could sense an echo of those bygone years and the journalism she
remembered from her youth. Here was a real conflict about to
unfold. But instead of CNN and a news crew, it would be Rachael in
the thick of the fighting. What Rachael expected to happen – she
didn't even dare to guess. After all, the whole point of her being
aboard the
Soft Cell
was to keep Maggie safe... but the
chance to witness the government and the Rafters coming to blows...
now that would be journalism, Rachael thought.

Despite coming last in the race, the
Soft
Cell
made respectable time across the open Puget Sound,
returning to the
Kalakala
. But by the time Maggie began to
furl her sails, the ferry's protective shell of small craft had
completely evaporated and the two Coast Guard Motor Lifeboats were
moored directly off the rear car deck. Small, black, commando-like
dinghies were tied to the grab rail of the ferry. It was apparent
that the Coast Guard was already on board.

It seemed to take an eternity to get Maggie's
small motorboat into the water. The winches whirred as Maggie
lowered it from its perch at the stern of the
Soft Cell
. The
outboard motor had to be attached next as the little dinghy bounced
in the water. Eventually, after what felt like an hour, Rachael and
Maggie were in the small craft and puttering the short distance to
the open rear car deck of the
Kalakala
.

As Rachael had both feared and anticipated,
all hell had broken loose aboard the ferry.

Maggie and Rachael climbed up onto the car
deck to a cacophony of screams and hollers. Three uniformed Coast
Guard seamen were tussling with Chemical Ali G, who'd been wrestled
to the floor. The putt-putt golf course was a wreck, as a
collection of Gray Beards and Arrowsoft employees screamed insults
at a cluster of dark-suited men and women.

Apart from the seamen's rifles, thankfully,
Maggie and Rachael could see no other weapons.

“Get off my boat!” Gandalf was screaming at a
young man, holding a bundle of papers in his hand.

“Now, you have to listen to reason,” the
young man was saying.

“You can serve your warrants up your ass!”
Gandalf bellowed at the man and shoved him. This produced a
reaction from one of the armed seamen, who broke off the attempt to
handcuff Chemical and brought a weapon around to Gandalf. “You
think that scares me?” Gandalf threw his hands up at the baby-faced
boy with the gun. Gandalf's beard billowed around his neck as he
blustered, adding intensity to his anger.

“Now, nobody start point guns at people!”
Maggie strode up, quickly situating herself at ground zero in the
ballyhoo. She stepped right in front of the barrel of the seaman's
M16, holding up a palm to it. “This is how people's feelings get
hurt. And nobody needs to be hurting anyone's feeling.”

The baby-faced seaman faltered, looking to
the dark-suited young man for a cue. The man with the papers in his
hands shook his head and the seaman returned his attention to the
handcuffed Chemical Ali G on the putting green.

“Now, what's all the yelling about?” Maggie
smiled. She spotted the three representatives of Arrowsoft, who
seemed to have turned sheet white in terror.

“Maggie, talk some sense into this pencil
neck,” Gandalf gave the young man a dismissive wave.

“If you'll shut up for a second, I'll try,”
Maggie condescended. She took a moment to whisper something to
Rachael, then turned her attention to the young man with the
fistful of papers. “Now who and what are you?” she said with an
impish grin.

While Maggie spoke, Rachael circled around
and spoke softly to the Arrowsoft employees. She herded them
quickly away from the confrontation and the men with guns.

Meanwhile, the young man with his hands full
of papers sucked in a lungful of air. He'd obviously explained who
he was and what he wanted few times already. “I am Special Agent
Galahad with the FBI. These are my colleagues, Agents Ralph and
Chesterton.” He gestured to a man and woman behind him. Then he
pointed at a second woman dressed in a gray suit. “And that is
Special Agent Ortiz with the IRS.” The young woman with a briefcase
nodded.

“IRS?” Maggie parroted, taken aback.

“Yes, and these -” Galahad held up the papers
in his hands.

“No,” Maggie shook her head, cutting him
off.

“What?” The Special Agent's momentum was
lost, derailed. “No what?”

“No, we don't say another word, anyone.”
Maggie gave a gesture to the encircling Rafter contingent. “Until
she
leaves.” Maggie lowered an accusatory finger at the IRS
agent. It was as if she was pointing out a harlot at a stoning.

“What, no -” Galahad began.

“No, nothing. And that's final.” Maggie
stepped off, taking Gandalf by his arm, turning him away from the
confrontation. Rachael had ushered the Arrowsofters up a nearby
staircase and returned in time to see Gandalf and Maggie exchanging
words, but Rachael couldn't make out their conversation.